Not Stronger
by High-Functioning Ginger
Summary: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That's always been John's motto. Sherlock's death certainly hasn't made him stronger, so is it killing him? So slowly and silently nobody realizes it?  Just an angsty drabble to help me cope with the Fall


_**AN: So this is just an angsty drabble to help me cope with the Fall. Which I still haven't seen. Anyway – I took a few liberties with John's back-story. But there is nothing in Sherlock about his past or family other than some vague details so hopefully it works. Let me know what you think.**_

**Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock. Until he does so I own nothing.**

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

He recalls the first time he heard that. It was from his grandfather. His stoic form of comfort and support when eight year old John broke his arm. His grandfather sat with him while the cast was being set and told him that the bone would grow back stronger. That he would be stronger. And it helped; John just looked forward to the day when his cast came of off and he would have a new and improved arm. Or something like that.

Through the years he often found himself thinking gratefully back to that day. Back to his grandfather and his lesson. The phrase always stuck with him. Helped him get through hard times. It would circle in his mind; like a chant whenever he was struggling. Promise of something better farther ahead. Promise of a "new and improved John" somewhere down the road. It became a motto for him.

He was thirteen when his father left his mother for another woman; who he had been dating illicitly for several months. Just walked out one night; leaving a handwritten note on the kitchen table with the phone number for a divorce lawyer. John cried; it hurt to see his mother so broken. To lose his father. It was hard trying to shoulder his new role as "man of the house." But it taught him about love and faithfulness and responsibility. Made him stronger.

When he was seventeen the almost nightly fights with his mother started. They were about Harry. Over the fact that she brought home a petite blond girl with a friendly smile and bright blue eyes instead of a bulky blond-haired soccer playing guy. John vehemently defended her against his mother's harsh religious damnations. The fierce arguments and occasional screaming match would rage on for at least an hour while fourteen year old Harry stood watching; tears streaming silently down her face. It was painful; seeing his family ripped apart by it. But it taught him to stand up for those you love. That you have to fight for what you believe in. Made him stronger.

When he was in his early twenties he entered med-school. Late nights spent studying and back-to-back exams. Unreasonably long and difficult essays and irksome professors who seemed hell-bent on finding reasons to fail him. It was stressful and exhausting. But it taught him that if put his mind to it he could do anything.

Made him stronger.

In his mid-twenties he begins the battle with Harry's drinking problem. Fetching her from bars where she passes out. Helping her deal with the hang-overs in the morning. Trying to get her into therapy. Struggling with her relapses. Having to step away so that he didn't get pulled to far into her messes. It was agony watching her waste her life away a bottle at a time. But it taught him that you have to pick your battles. That sometimes you just have to step away because you really can't help.

Made him stronger.

In his late twenties he was shipped out to Afghanistan. Hell on earth. Actually it was worse. Car bombs and grenades. Stomach-twisting injuries and screams of agony. Death and destruction everywhere he looked. Scorching sun and constant gun-fire ravaging his sanity. Seeing his men, his friends blown to bits right in front of his eyes. Absolute torment. It nearly killed him. But it didn't. It turned him into a soldier. Taught him to keep it together when everyone else, everything else was falling apart.

It made him stronger.

In his early thirties and he's moved in with Sherlock. Volatile experiments spread across the kitchen table. Body parts in the fridge. Exhausting chases after criminals down back streets on cold London nights. Being taken hostage and having to watch as his innocent date nearly gets speared through. It was a struggle to adapt to Sherlock's brand of brilliance which often paralleled insanity. Disturbing at times with Sherlock's sociopathic tendencies. But it taught him to be flexible and accepting. To him to think on his feet. To look beyond the cold exterior and discover the beautiful and amazing man underneath. It taught him to blindly trust and follow when necessary.

It made him stronger.

Every rough patch; every obstacle in his life had made him stronger. They gave him benefits in the long run that made it easier to accept the hardships and struggles that seemed to frequent his life. Until now.

Eighteen months later and he finds himself utterly destroyed. By Sherlock's death.

It hasn't taught him anything. It hasn't made him stronger. Instead it's stripped him down to a papery husk of the person he was before. There is nothing he has gained from it. Nothing he ever will. A broken bone might heal back stronger than before but a broken heart doesn't. Not for him. So if it isn't making him stronger; is it killing him? It must be. So slowly and silently that no one; not even he himself realizes it.

Because what doesn't make you stronger kills you.

At least that is what logic dictates.

**If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.**

**KP**


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